


There Won't be Art After This

by Onamonapiedia



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onamonapiedia/pseuds/Onamonapiedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker puts the final touches on his last masterpiece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Won't be Art After This

**Author's Note:**

> This short was inspired by a picture of the same name by Greenapplefreak over on deviantART. It takes place several mega-cycles after what is depicted there. The sketch Sunstreaker is working on in that picture is supposed to be a draft of the painting described here.

“Well you’ve made quite the mess haven’t you?” Mirage’s elegant voice sounded from the entrance of the studio, echoing off the broken shards and torn canvases littering the work space. 

Across the debris field of fallen artwork Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise from his hunched position in front of the large canvas that was to be his next masterpiece. 

“What was it this time?” Mirage continued as he worked his way across the room, careful to avoid stepping on the shattered pieces of metal and glass carpeting the floor.  “Did someone insult your paint job again?” 

This time Sunstreaker didn’t even acknowledge the question with an annoyed huff, all his attentions apparently consumed by the paint encrusted brush clenched in his fist. 

“You really went all out,” Mirage grumbled as he surveyed the room, hoping to find at least one work of art that had managed to avoid its creator’s wrath.  But his search proved to be in vain, not a single painting or sculpture had been spared the knife’s mutilating slash or the hammer’s crippling blow.  The yellow mech at the source the chaos, the soldier who took arms against his own creations, huddled untouched amid the mutilated remains of dancing figurines and laughing frames; a monolith amid a wasteland of destruction. 

Reaching down amongst the ribbons of torn steal at his peds, Mirage withdrew a carved piece of crystal about the size of his fist, jagged along one side where it had split from the statue base, out of the wreckage strew across the floor.  With great care the wealthy mech turned the fragment about in his servos, palming at the carved optics and bared denta so evenly etched into the stone.  Few mechs had the proper combination of precision and strength to hand carve living crystal, even less the insight to incorporate future growths into the design of the finished sculpture, but Sunstreaker had managed both beautifully.  In fact the sculpted turbofox had once been the deciding piece in the affluent investor’s decision to sponsor the lower-class artisan. 

“You know you can’t keep doing this,” Mirage continued as he attempted to cross the room, a hint of concern entering his dignified voice.  “You’ll lose all of your commissions if you keep destroying your work before you can even get it to the clients.” 

Sunstreaker remained unresponsive, doing nothing to indicate he had even heard the noblemech’s words. 

With a sigh, the aristocrat slowly drew closer to surly artist, intent on reprimanding the classless mech for his boorish behavior.  But before he could even form the first syllables of the well rehearsed speech they both had memorized long ago, his optics fell upon the enormous canvas towering before the seated mech.  The masterpiece stellar cycles in the making, what was to become the crowning jewel of the entire collection, the highpoint in either of their careers, had been drenched in a sticky florescent purple-pink paint.  Then, as if to add insult to injury, a form had been added near the bottom of the mural, a hunched and cowering frame clutching at a neon soaked bundle laying prone before of the valiant figures and noble forms of the Autobot elite. 

A fire began to burn at the core of the noblemech’s spark.  How could he have done this?  How could that no-class barbarian desecrate _this_ painting _mega-cycles_ before the ceremony?  They had been luckily—no _honored_ to have been given the privilege of presenting a piece to dedicate the passing of such a great leader.  They would never be offered an opportunity like this again.  And that insolent, unrestrained _simpleton_ had the audacity to take his indignations out on Sentinel Prime’s One Vorn Memorial Dedication. 

The posh mech clenched his fists, almost losing the battle to restrain his anger as he turned to face the solemn artist; but when his optics fell upon the disheveled mech, bent before his last creation, all the aristocrat could manage was to ask in a shaking voice: 

“Why?” 

For several moments stillness was his only reply… until Sunstreaker spoke up for the first time that evening. 

“I’m leaving,” he murmured, his non-response only audible through the engulfing silence that had filled the room. 

“What?!” Mirage asked, a combination of shock and disbelief clear in his voice. 

“You heard me,” the yellow mech growled.  “I’m leaving.  I’m done with this... atrocity you people deem to call art.  I’m done with carving turbofoxes and crafting trinkets for a bunch of noble slaggers who wouldn’t know true art if it struck them over their helms.” 

Mirage stared, stunned by the yellow mech’s offensive words, flinching back at the hateful glare he received for his confused disbelief. 

“And where will you go?” the nobble asked flabbergasted. 

“I’ll join the Autobots, Sideswipe’s been talking about it for weeks.  We’ll enlist together,” the solemn mech responded. 

“And do what?  Die fighting some ridiculous battle because a lunatic has decided he isn’t happy with his allotment in life?” Mirage asked incredulous. 

“It’s better than staying up here!”  Sunstreaker yelled, erupting from his seat.  “Better than sitting up in this glass tower while mechs are being slaughtered in the streets!  Better than listening to aristocrats talk about the war like it’s not really happening, citing statistics like people aren’t actually dying!  Taking bets on how many will fall next!” 

Sunstreaker paused in his outburst, taking a moment to calm his shaking shoulders and ease his labored vents.  Though his servos never did come unclenched. 

“I can’t stay here,” Sunstreaker continued, a noticeable sadness entering his voice.  “I’m sorry Mirage, I just can’t.” 

For a moment Mirage thought the other mech would start to cry, but before he could offer any words of comfort or advice, the narcissist had already made his way across the demolished room; leaving the noble alone amid a world of destruction. 

Even as he watched the yellow mech leave that day, it never actually accrued to Mirage that the angry artist would keep true to his word, that this would be the last time they would ever meet as benefactor and patron again.  It wouldn’t be until much later, when he too was forced to enlist in the absurd war, or suffer a homeless life on the rubble strewn streets of the once thought invulnerable Towers District, that he began to believe he may never see the arrogant mech again. 

Often, when it was quiet out in the field, as he was waiting for the signal to begin infiltrating an enemy base or assassinate a critical target, his mind would be drawn back to that day, to the litter strewn room and the paint drenched canvas.  Only then would be begin to question the reasons behind Sunstreaker’s departure and meaning of the paint soaked mural.  It wouldn’t be until vorns later, when Cybertron was too diseased to sustain their war and their conflict destine to continue into outer space, that Mirage would be offered the fate of the vain artist and an opportunity for explanation.  But by that time, he would already have all the answers he would ever need.


End file.
